


Traditions

by startrekkingaroundasgard



Series: 31 Days of Ficmas 2020 [20]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, F/F, Family, Fluff, Forehead Kisses, Poetry, The Doctor Has ADHD (Doctor Who), Traditions, fidgetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:01:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28197324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startrekkingaroundasgard/pseuds/startrekkingaroundasgard
Summary: The Doctor gets fidgety and disrupts the reader’s family tradition. In order to make it up to them, she suggests a special trip in the TARDIS together.
Relationships: The Doctor (Doctor Who) & Reader, The Doctor (Doctor Who)/Reader, Thirteenth Doctor/Reader
Series: 31 Days of Ficmas 2020 [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035468
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Traditions

_One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six._

The Doctor hummed along to the recording, no doubt considering a similar instance in her own life. A wave of calm flowed over you as you settled into her side, her arm sliding around your waist to pull you close as Dylan Thomas’s ‘A child’s Christmas In Wales’ began to play. It was a family tradition to listen together, with no phones, no distractions, just the entire family sat around the fire with the track playing and you were over the moon to have The Doctor join you, for her to be welcomed into something so intimate with your family. 

_And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier in Pompeii._

“I’ve been to Pompeii. Twice. Or maybe only once. My face was there, so maybe it counts,” The Doctor whispered. “Either way. Wouldn’t recommend it.”

She lifted her chin, slowly drawing breath in an obvious sign that she was waiting for you to ask about that particular adventure. However, you just smiled at her and returned your head to her shoulder, comfortable against her as the recording played on. For a moment you feared that she would launch into her tale anyway but, for once, The Doctor took the hint and respected the silence around her.

She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets, standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, “Would you like anything to read?”

Against you, The Doctor began to fidget. She pulled on the edges of her sleeves, stretched the fabric until it covered her knuckles then let It ping back to its original position. You rolled your eyes but said nothing as you tuned back into the poem.

Less than a minute later, the Time Lord was distracting you again. The familiar buzz of the sonic could be heard over the recording as she scanned the cat that settled on her boots. Finding nothing of alarm, she then began to tease the poor cat by waving the shining end around over its head, laughing as it attempted to claw the screwdriver from her grip for itself.

You always hated to spoil her fun but an end had to be put to it before your younger cousins started to imitate her behaviour and grow rowdy too. Gently, you reached down and plucked the sonic from her hand and slipped it back into her pocket. “Doctor,” you muttered. “Please, just sit still and listen.”

_Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed._

“Did you know, there are accounts from Aristotle about pink snow? Lovely chap, he was. Terrible dancer. And the reason it was pink is because of astaxanthin in algae. That’s in carrots, too. Sells on the black markets of Ferrodjin for a million tokens a gram. They sprinkle it in their tea.”

You turned to The Doctor, silently imploring her to stop speaking. It wasn’t that you weren’t fascinated by her random facts but now really wasn’t the time for a history-slash-biology-slash-xenology lesson. You glanced over at your father, his hand gripped tightly around the arm of his chair in annoyance at her constant interruptions. It took a moment for her bright eyes to widen in understanding before she mimed zipping her lips shut.

_A painting book in which I could make the grass, the trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds._

“That sounds a lot like this little moon I visited in the Orion Cascade. We should go sometime. We could go now! Oh, you’d love the berries. The birds hoard them because they believe that they’re gifts from the gods but they actually come from within the planet itself. The seeds germinate within the magma and then they are blown out onto the surface like -”

“Doctor,” you hissed. “Please, this once, can you just stop?”

Her face fell, all of her excitement draining at your sharp tone. She muttered a quiet apology before slipping from the sofa and wandering off into the kitchen. You sank into the sofa, the plush cushions enveloping you. With her gone it should have been easier to focus on the recording but you couldn’t shake the gnawing guilt in your gut over hurting her feelings.

Clawing your hands down your face, you groaned and went after her.

Unsurprisingly, you found her in the garden on the swings. It was freezing out but she didn’t seem so bothered by the cold. You, on the other hand, regretted not grabbing your coat on the way out. You sat on the swing beside her and sighed, “I didn’t mean to snap. I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “No, no. Don’t apologise. It should be me. I didn’t mean to ruin your tradition. I’m just not… good at being still. You probably noticed.”

“I noticed.” You reached across and smiled when she took your hand. “It’s really okay. Most of the adults in the family struggle too. Grandpa falls asleep after the fourth verse every year. Mum sneaks her phone beneath the comforter and plays games. Uncle draws along because it helps him focus.”

“I still feel like I should tried harder. I know it’s important to you.”

“You’re more important.”

The Doctor beamed, joy radiating from every inch of her face. She leaned over and cupped your face, pressed a light kiss to your forehead then jumped up to her feet and shuffled back and forth, rubbing at her arms as the cold finally began to take its toll on her. “Let me make it up to you?”

You were about to protest, to insist that she really didn’t need to but you could hardly refuse when The Doctor was practically bouncing up and down in front of you, so proud of her idea. “What were you thinking?”

“Let me take you to see Dylan Thomas recite the poem live.”

Genuinely blown away by her suggestion, you simply ran up to The Doctor and threw your arms around her. She softened into your embrace, lingered for a few moments before pulling away. “I’ll take that as a yes. Come on, then! Let’s go. And don’t worry about your coat. I’ve got a spare one you can wear. Ready?”


End file.
